


The Queen of the Bog

by PurpleHydrangeas



Series: Johnlock Fills [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Besotted Sherlock, Confused Sherlock, Crime Scenes, Deductions Prove it, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, John has an extended family, Lucy ships it, M/M, Medical Conditions, Mike Ships It, Post-Season/Series 03, Profanity, Sherlock Makes Deductions, Surrogacy, adoring Sherlock, matchmaker mike, outsider pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-14 03:05:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7150508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleHydrangeas/pseuds/PurpleHydrangeas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's cousin Lucy comes to London and much is revealed. Really, was sticking her by the bogs necessary at that sham of a wedding? Lucy thinks not. She's always seen things very clearly no matter the view. However, she's not one to hold a grudge. It's not poor Johnny's fault he was conned by a rouge CIA operative.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Queen of the Bog

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the whole "stick her in the bogs" scene. 
> 
> Totally had a dream about cousin Lucy. It's so AU. I love this one. There was a reason she couldn't lick that stamp.
> 
> I went a little wild tagging this. Had to edit to remove an errant Avengers tag. No Bucky Barnes in this one, folks.

Lucy Woodbine hated London. She clicked at her phone’s home button again, and almost growled as it displayed an alert. She hated London. It wasn’t done to admit it, but it was true. London ranked only above the Atlanta airport at three in the morning. That place still gave her nightmares. And people say the Tube is complicated. Still, getting lost in Atlanta aside, she hated London. 

She hated the smog, and the tube, and the American tourists with nothing better to do than sip crap tea out of poncey china cups at the wrong hour, making a mockery of her culture. She much preferred Inverness, or even Glasgow. God, give her Scotland, any day. There was nothing like fish and chips in Glasgow. 

But here she was, wearing a dress she’d gotten who knows where, bag from Kate Spade, and jacket from Boden. She did appreciate Kate Spade’s ability to accessorize. Stacy and Clinton were much nicer than Trinny and Susannah, too, and almost nothing beat ice cream in Manhattan. She’d about died dancing The Shag in South Carolina. 

She was in London, attending yet another boring medical conference, hating this wretched building and its horrible, vile, disgusting, lack of cell reception. One would think that people would think about things when setting up conferences. 

She needed to keep up on things. Health literacy and education was important, but God, so was her ability to text. She got a real kick of saying that she wasn’t a doctor, not _that_ kind of doctor. She had a PhD in Health Literacy and Education, and an MPH in Community Health.

 She had a postgraduate diploma in creative writing, too, but that hardly signified. She’d gotten that after a wretched breakup before getting a postdoc with WHO. That had been rough, and writing crap poetry had been her savior. Why not parlay her pain into professional expertise? That was the way of the Woodbines, after all. 

She had checked in at the desk, as was the way of this process, and stuck the awful name tag onto her dress. She headed into the buffet spread, hoping for at least a bagel to spike her blood sugar before listening to some old, puffed up, self-important upper-class, white guy, pontificate about STI prevention when she knew damn well he’d not had a good shag in at least 75 years, not because he was old, but because he was married to his work. 

Lucy had just grabbed a bottle of Tesco apple juice made out of water and corn syrup, and taken a swig, when she spotted an open space by the window. Making a beeline for the cell reception the window offered, Lucy bolted almost as fast as her New Look flats could carry her, but not as fast as a run, which would have called undue attention to her need to check her email. 

In her haste, she knocked into a body who was also headed for her spot, her spot with cell reception, colliding chest to chest with a stocky man wearing a button-down. A steely hand with a gentle grip steadied her, and her apple juice, just before the force knocked her backwards, “You alright there, Luce?”

Lucy hissed as she realized just who’d prevented her from tumbling back on her arse. “Suck it, Watson. I’m getting that window spot and you’re not stopping me.” 

John chuckled, stepping back and stealing a biscuit off of her plate. “Why are you my favorite cousin?”

“Because I’m the only one who can keep up with you intellectually, and I run faster.” Lucy quipped, unable to help the soft smile that covered her face, “Plus, Peter’s a brainless idiot. You know it, Johnny.” 

John stepped aside, and let her into the space by the wide window. “You’re also addicted to your mobile.” 

Lucy sighed when her iPhone pingged happily.  “Better a mobile than a madman.” 

Lucy knew how things were. She knew. She and Molly, whom she’d met at John’s sham, fake wedding with that criminal, talked about it. She knew. How could she not have known, after even that sham wedding was little more than a ode to their love? She knew that her cousin was deeply in love with that madman even when she’d gotten that stupid wedding invitation, and Molly said they were all grins and smiles now.

Lucy still thought she should have done some more to get him therapy after the Fall. She should have taken a sabbatical and taken him home to Scotland to recover. Maybe she should have arranged to go to Africa on humanitarian trip and taken him along. Who decided after the love of your life died to start going on with some woman who was not suited, in that she was too perfect? A very grief stricken man, that’s who. She had failed him, and seeing him go through that farce was almost too much to even reflect upon. It counted as one of Lucy’s failures in life. 

 It was too bad that Mary’s baby had turned out to be her ex-boyfriend’s child. Lucy had seen them at the wedding. Who stood closer to some ex-boyfriend than their new husband? A lying liar who lied, that’s who.

 John would be such a good father. They could even use their grandfather’s name. Hamish was a good Scottish name. She made a mental note to start looking up good surrogates in London. Finding one who would meet Sherlock’s exacting specifications wouldn’t be easy. Still, Lucy knew it was possible. 

John sighed, clicking his phone, and paging through texts, not looking up as he spoke. “I need a bit of reception before this thing starts.” 

Lucy angled her elbow to give him a bit of space by the window in the press of people milling about, leaving John to enter her personal space. “You only came early to show your face so if you bolt, it won’t look so horrible.” 

“If, Luce?” John grinned as his phone dinged, one, two, three, four, five, six times in rapid succession.  After a moment wherein they were both absorbed in their phones, he added, “That’s optimistic. He’s working a 7.75. I’m here on the 0.25% chance he won’t get shot gadding about London.” 

“What’s he got now?” Lucy tried to peer down onto John’s horrible, old, mobile phone. It was Harry’s cast-off. Good God, would she ever stop? It appeared Lucy would need to have words with Nana again about this phone thing. They needed to get the man an iPhone for Christmas.  

John shook his head, keeping secrets, and Lucy grabbed his crappy mobile with a huff. “I don’t know how you survive with that fucking thing.”  It was at least four years old, cracked and scuffed from being in its owner’s pocket as he’d been kicking the shit out of people. 

“Nobody says that like you do, Lucy, with such vehemence.” John rocked back on his feet, preparing to grab the phone away. He was such a good soul, who needed to stop being so trusting. He trusted his sister, and she pawned her crappy old mobiles on him. He trusted a blonde criminal, and she fake married him and almost killed his lover. Thank God that wedding was never legal. 

God. Why was he so fucking trusting? Lucy was looking at his phone. He didn’t even have a passcode on his phone. He hung around criminals, and do you think they asked permission? 

“You’re the one with a swear jar, love.” Lucy said at an undertone, earning the glare of some old doctor in a floral dress next to them, “Now fuck off and let me look at the fossil you call a phone.” She paged quickly through the android phone, hating the interface, but before she could read anything, it pinged with another text. 

The old doctor could fuck right off, too. 

She huffed when John reached and tried to get his phone back, “Lucy, give me the phone.” Oh, that was his Captain Watson voice. She just bet Sherlock folded like paper when he heard that, went weak in those gangly knees. It sounded like petulant posturing to her. “Give it.” 

Lucy held her own, cradling it against her breasts, and fending off Dr. Grabby with her splayed elbows. He was terrified of breasts, had been since she’d come into her own, and he wouldn’t dare risk grabbing the phone and ending up making contact. 

Lucy couldn’t hold back a giggle, “You are a doctor, at a medical conference.” She jammed down on John’s instep, and his aim and grip on her elbow faltered, “Have you no circumspection?” 

She elbowed her cousin in the stomach, and had a nanosecond to read the text. Unfortunately, the phone went skittering out of her grasp, and flew forward, landing at the feet of a portly man in a brown suit jacket, who looked quite harried as he entered the room, just before the conference began. 

The blood drained from Lucy’s face as he picked it, up and John glared at her. “Now see what you’ve done.” He hissed. 

The man in the jacket advanced upon them before John could offer an apology. Lucy took charge of the situation, knowing that loads of people were staring. “Sorry about that.” 

John looked much more relaxed than she felt. “Hey, Mike.” 

“John.” The portly man seemed baffled, “Don’t tell me you’ve gone and found a date here, of all places.”

“Good lord.” John glanced at Lucy, and Lucy took some pity on his poor soul. They were close in age, the same year in school. “Lucy?”

Lucy replied, “I’m John’s cousin, Dr. Stamford. We’ve met.” Lucy held out her hand, “Lucy Woodbine. His rouge CIA assassin of a fake wife hated me, so I’m sure we’ll be good friends.” 

Dr. 1980’s-big-collar-floral-dress made a strangled noise. Lucy smiled at her, glad to know that if she had some kind of fit, there was a roomful of doctors to assist her. Not Lucy, naturally, but someone, surely. 

“Lucy.” John said, a tight smile gracing his face, shooting Dr. Floral Dress an apologetic glance. 

Mike faltered, until a hesitant bit of a pleasant smile crossed his face, “Yes, well. That was a terrible bit of business, wasn’t it? All’s well, I suppose.”

“Of course it is.” Lucy agreed, as John tapped away at his phone, something about sheep’s blood versus human blood, and Mike sent him a fond look, “It’s all your doing, Mike, after all.”

“Me?” He asked, looking at her with confusion, “I...”

“You set them up, after all.” Lucy smiled at Mike, and included Dr. Floral Dress in her reply, “You’re the world’s only consulting matchmaker. You stepped in when they were in over the depths, which is nearly always, bless, and patched them together.” 

Mike looked so happy. Lucy knew her work was done. She saw that he’d been having a hard day, if the lack of starch in his trousers is anything to go by. 

John opened his mouth to speak, to deny his relationship, but Lucy gestured gently, and the wind left John’s sails. Mike looked so happy that poor old Johnny couldn’t say one word.

* * *

He was trying to sneak out. Lucy felt his movement building next to her. He was keeping the jump on his texts, so the phone wouldn’t buzz. Lucy could see that John was trying to pay attention to the doctor, who was not going on about STIs, but was in fact, discussing Vitamin D levels. “Our most recent study into the matter found that low vitamin D levels were connected to certain tumors, such as....” 

 _Buz---_ John cut off the phone. It was abundantly clear to Lucy that no one ever told him how to silence the thing. Lucy looked over, trying to peer at his texts, but before she could see anything, it buzzed again. 

She knew clearly what it meant, because slowly, John slid his phone in his pocket. Just as he did, his notepad clattered to the floor, resounding in this hellhole of a lecture hall. 

 The doctor that was speaking cleared his throat sharply, “As I was saying....” 

Lucy froze as John stilled, and slid her foot forward, to step lightly on the notebook. She picked  it up, and tucked it in her bag. John was already out of the door, by then, stealthy and far too quick, but Lucy had meant what she’d said when she’d asserted she was faster. It was no lie. 

Quickly, Lucy gathered her things, and slid to the door, slipping out of the row without bashing anyone, even though she did earn several glares. “It can’t be that interesting.” Lucy muttered, stepping over bodies in the row, “Christ.” 

It was only after the whispered invective left her mouth that she she was standing in the aisle, right next to Dr. 1980s floral dress. Lucy gave her a bright smile, as she 

 down notes, glaring at Lucy. Lucy could not help but add, “You’ve misspelled rickets. There’s only one ‘t.’” 

With that, Lucy dashed to the door. 

* * *

Lucy caught up to John, just as she made it to the crime scene. He’d almost ditched her, but Lucy was nothing if not observant and good at following people. The crime scene was close, and the speeding cars were enough of a clue to find the scene once she got off at the same tube stop as John had done. Lucy hung back and watched as he expertly made his way under the tape, nodding at techs, being a generally nice guy and pausing to notice people. 

A dark haired woman said something sharp, and John almost imperceptibly recoiled. Lucy was quite ready to give the woman a slice of her well honed vocabulary, but she didn’t want to miss the chance to see John in his element. John smiled, a cold, chilling smile, and dismissed the woman with one or two quiet words.

Lucy edged her way closer to the barrier. She was going to slide under the tape, weave towards the scene, but the same woman stopped her, “This is a crime scene!”

“I’m quite aware.” Lucy said, cooly, dragging up her hair into a bun on the top of her head, “And you are?”

The woman did not answer. 

Lucy grinned, coolly. “Dr. Watson is expecting me.” 

“So, the freak’s pet has yet another woman trailing after him?” The woman hissed, like a cat, “Word to the wise, honey, you won’t last a week. The freak’s too possessive.”

“And your pedestrian lover will never leave his wife for you.” Lucy blandly noted, “So now we both know the score, huh?” 

She turned and stalked away, muttering about freaks. She rather reminded Lucy of Petunia Dursley. Or Vernon. Yes, Vernon. 

Lucy looked up to see Sherlock staring at her, his rapid fire speech halting. 

“Lucy!” John called, pulling the tarp over the body, as if he needed to spare her, “You can’t be here.”

Lucy was so over his shock, “Obviously, it’s a physical possibility.” 

Sherlock spoke then, “Not a friend, then. Relative. Cousin. Maternal side. Two degrees. You’re a doctor. Same age as John. You like me.” 

Sherlock seemed taken aback by this deduction, “Why? Ah. Having grown up with John, you are obviously more aware than most of his latent homosexual desires, and you therefore, feel that I am a decent match for him. I assure you that I am not. He is, by far, my superior, in all matters, except deduction. I am the best at deduction.”

He said the last like a proud schoolboy, shooting a look at John, obviously expecting fond praise. It warmed the cold recesses of her soul. 

“Wrong.” Lucy said, “If by doctor, you mean a physician, you would be quite erroneous.”

“I did not mean physician.” Sherlock countered, “Had I meant that I would have said that.”

“The fact remains that you did not. So you lose.” Lucy announced,  “Also, I have three postgraduate degrees. More than John.”

“It is not quantity, but quality. John puts his degrees to use.” Sherlock peered at her, and it was all Lucy could do not to laugh at how adorable they were, “In any case, you will settle this dispute quite nicely.”

John shook his head, “You can’t help, Lucy. The NSY is hardly open to the public.” 

Lucy countered, “And yet, you’re here.” 

“I’m a doctor.” John attempted to warn her off. 

 She grinned over at Sherlock, and the implication was not lost on him.  “So am I.”

John huffed. “Lucy.” 

Sherlock began speaking, “If we could set aside familial posturing, of which I have no experience...” 

At this John laughed outright, but Sherlock continued, “Could we please endeavor to discern why this dead woman has crayon wax splattered on her body?”

“She was waxing this morning, likely it spilled. See the minor burn, there, and there?” Lucy asserted, earning her confused looks, “It’s Friday. You should look and see if she had a blind date tonight.”

Amateurs. 

Maybe, just maybe, she could be the world’s only consulting female. It certainly beat her academic position. She couldn’t call her coworkers idiots, but to John, well that was their pet name. “Say, Sherlock? Ever thought of expanding your little crime solving family?”

Sherlock’s confusion was as adorable as John’s shock. 

Anyway, she wasn’t serious about consulting with them. It was just fun to rile John. And, on the upside, she could start planting surrogacy ideas. Good providers went fast, and nobody got the drop on a Woodbine. 

But first, maybe, a wedding? Lucy’s been planning this one for ages... 

She bet Sherlock has been, too… 


End file.
